


Please Don’t Let That Stand Between Us

by fish_in_fridge



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Partly Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I tag AU because Maglor returns to Valinor in the end, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Original Female Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fish_in_fridge/pseuds/fish_in_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The courtship, separation and reunion of Maglor and his wife. AU in ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don’t Let That Stand Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> The story was written and first posted three months ago. I have recently been editing this story and have rewritten several sections of it. My heart felt thanks for kim-onka from fanfiction.net, who PMed me very constructive critique of the original writing, which partly serves as the guideline of my editing, and for Sara Pettersson, whose lovely comments have re-ignited my passion to improve, however modestly, this piece of shabby writing.
> 
> I own nothing other than the OFC.

The first time Marilla set her eyes upon that handsome Elf, she was but a child, barely passing into her second year of the Trees. She was on her first visit to her uncle’s house, where no age mates of hers were around. She was left to take care of herself while the grown-ups were engaged in their grown-up talks, till that handsome Elf invited her to take a seat at the table as well. If anyone showed any surprise to that offer, Marilla didn’t notice. The few things she really remembered were that he had a rich, fruity voice and a smile even more inviting, for it showed care and understanding, and that when she talked without stopping for breath about her little dolls and little story books and toy instruments and the songs she sang together with her little friends, he listened with that bemused, lovely smile on his lips and in his shining eyes.

Thus it was nothing less than a shock when, a couple of days later, she saw the very same amiable Elf that had talked long with her riding out of the palace of Tirion heading east, arrayed in the riches of a prince but wearing no tangible expression on his face, followed with a squire bearing the royal banner and a dozen lords. Seeing the look on her face, Marilla’s uncle briefed on her that this was Prince Canafinwë grandson of the King, setting out as head of delegation to the Telerin King of Alqualondë, before he chastised her staring at the prince which was a very improper and impolite thing to do. But little Marilla just couldn’t remove her gaze from the direction that royal delegation disappeared out of her sight. Marilla didn’t feel flattered or overjoyed by the fact that a prince had beckoned her to talk with him. The only thing she could think of, for that moment, was that there would be no second chance to entertain herself and the amiable Elf with her childish little talk; and the only feeling she could make sense of was a keen loss, for there would just not be another grown-up who could tolerate her talking Elfling nonsense as he did a couple of days ago.

As Marilla slowly grew up many of her girl friends had found their one true love and became happily engaged after they came of age and then happily married. The same just didn’t happen to the young adult Marilla. She felt alarmed, and then worried, and then very lonely, wondering what was wrong with her, until she no longer felt or thought of any of those. Maybe she was just not a marrying sort of person. That was not unheard of, after all.

So when her uncle, now working as a secretary for the palace, brought Marilla to a not-that-formal gathering in the royal garden, she was indeed feeling both very flattered and quite intimidated when Prince Canafinwë asked for her hand for the first dance, and even more flattered, (though less intimidated, for the prince was as amiable as her very first impression of him and that familiar voice and smile of his eased her greatly) when at the end of the party, the prince asked her out. He asked her out repeatedly, to walks, parties, small gatherings among friends, and etc.; soon enough everyone knew he was courting her. And Marilla had to try very hard to not let the idea of being dated by a prince disturb her.

She was least disturbed when she was alone with him, as Makalaurë or any other name he wanted her to call him as or she wanted to call him as. He took her to his little seclusion. It was a small rose garden fenced by white marbles set hidden in the southern mountain ridge of Calacirya, a place yet unknown to his own brothers. In the quietness of the seclusion Makalaurë’ serenaded her on his harp and she felt how powerfully he had struck a chord with her. Nothing was between them there, save the silver light of Telperion shrouding their contours, the sweet fragrance of roses teasing their nostrils and the harmony of Makalaurë’s music passing all the distance from his fingers and lips to her ears, and there she could freely indulge herself to his songs and let her imagination run the most romantic path; till the bard told her what she felt was no imagination, after the five hundredth love song he had sung her in his garden, by his lips that closed the remaining distance between him and her.

It was not a loitering kiss, and there was no embrace as they kissed. Yet it felt as if they had kissed long, cuddling in each other’s arms, and drinking in each other’s scent as well as the sweetness of white roses in the summer breeze, even though his hands were clutching at his harp and hers at the hem of her top. When they broke apart, she saw her longing mirrored in his eyes, as well as her ill-concealed nervousness at their first kiss, and he understood both, for he drew her close to him as she took her seat on the railing, his arms around her shoulders and his lips upon hers. His harp was in a cluster of rosebushes and for a moment left forgotten. For a moment they permitted their prolonged kiss to overpower them.

After the fiftieth kiss they shared (and that took quite a while to accomplish, for he couldn’t pay her visits as frequently as he wished given his duty in the palace and her residential address which was way out of the city of Tirion), he asked for her hand, this time for marriage. It had to take place in his rose garden which never failed to work magic. And Marilla said yes.

It was true that she fringed a little when an odd feel of cold metal, which was nothing other than the silver ring he made for her, slipped up her finger, and that there was a look of pitiful self-consciousness in Marilla’s eyes when she offered him her ring, which was actually purchased from a pupil of one of Mahtan’s pupils, and she thought he’d recognize traces of his grandfather’s teaching. He did, but that mattered little at the end of the day. And it mattered even less when they stood side by side as prideful groom and bride in a blissful springtime of Tirion, nothing really standing between them save their own hands that met and joined and held fast to one another.

In their married life they still frequented this rose garden and, seated on the marble railing, he would bid her stay close to him and place his harp atop her lap and instruct her how to play the new songs he had written for her, his lips often buried in her rich tresses before he noticed.

 

* * *

Accommodating to Makalaurë’s family life was nothing easy for a country girl like Marilla. Being an only child, Marilla was very unprepared for Makalaurë’s bunch of little brothers always ready to tease her or smirk at her or play pranks on her. Being raised by a pair of soft-voiced parents, Marilla was unsettled or even frightened by the haughty, harsh challenges Makalaurë’s father would so often throw at his mother (and occasionally at Marilla, too, when she accidentally displeased him), and the stern, cold rebukes his mother rewarded him with. Makalaurë constantly assured her that this was just the way of his father’s household, and that everyone here was in their nature very loving people, even though she might not see that at first glance. His family could indeed be a little bit annoying at times, he would add as an afterthought when he was in such a humour. At the end of his words she always smiled with a slight relief which always made him want to kiss her and further relax her.

Most of her own observation fitted well with Makalaurë’s claim. All the disputes between those siblings, however constantly they took place, were short-lived. And the brothers always quick in defending one another, often in a fashion too vehement to Marilla’s liking, when any of them was assumed attacked or mistreated by any outsider. Makalaurë, too, had a share of edginess typical to Fëanáro’s family, which for the time being showed almost only in the stern, almost self-righteous tongue and expression he would adopt when he was admonishing his naughty little brothers in defense of his wife. Yet for most of the time, he was still her handsome, amiable Elf.

When, however seldom it actually took place, he spoke his concerns for the quarrels of his parents, Makalaurë would sigh deeply. That sigh Marilla took as a signal for her to retreat her arms from around his neck. Generally he hinted more respect to the reasoning of his mother, even though he always close his little talk which actually aimed at no one with the same sentence “My father never makes mistakes. He never does.”

But there was one topic, which Marilla only heard once from her husband’s lips. “It never fails to sadden me when Mother pretends she doesn’t realize how much she hurts Father by visiting the Lady Indis or speaking so unreasonably highly of her and her children. For how can she not realize? Mother’s such an understanding person. Well, true to speak, the Lady Indis is a good-mannered woman, nice-looking as well, that everyone can just fall for at first sight. But that Vanya has hurt Father so much and so deeply - every woman with good senses simply knows what she should not do under that circumstance, and no, she just follows the pettiness of her soul, and will never ever think of stopping her torment on my father. And yet Mother refuses to hear Father calling that woman cruel! How is that even possible, Mother being Nerdanel the Wise?” Makalaurë let out a cry, and Marilla had to fall silent.

Marilla really didn’t know what to say at that moment. She used to look upon Queen Indis from afar in the palace halls during whole length of every festival session, before her marrying Makalaurë. Back then she held her share of esteem for the graceful golden Queen, as well as her share of girlish envy towards her for never being able to just be like her; but most certain of all, Queen Indis was a cheerful image to her mind, an example of true ladyship. Ever since her marriage she had been in the Queen’s presence no more than ten times, for Fëanáro made every effort to prevent himself and his entire household from catching the sight of the stepmother he hated. But Nerdanel paid seasonal visits to Indis and her family, and shared a table with Indis and her daughters during time of drinking. Twice Nerdanel brought her beloved daughter-in-law, with Makalaurë’s grudging assent, to Indis’ quarters, and Marilla’s esteem for the Queen only grew higher after actually talking to the ladt she had long admired. She had never voiced her opinion under her husband’s roof, but whenever Queen Indis was concerned, Marilla’s mind was really more attuned to that of Nerdanel’s.

Oblivious of the cause of her disquiet, Makalaurë took her again into his arms, apologizing half-heartedly for boring her with his rant. Now her lips were sealed. She wouldn’t risk it if speaking her own mind would lead to a quarrel between her and her beloved. She could only return his gesture by squeezing his arm.

Marilla never truly understood Fëanáro the crafty and haughty High Prince of the Noldor despite all her years living under the roof of his grand, imposing house as his daughter-in-law. That man's thinking was ever a mystery behind his quick shifts of mood and his highly explosive temper, and what he was up to in his forge was in most cases a well-kept secret. She herself was little worthy of his attention, and it was no surprise he never failed to neglect her aversion to his lately meal-time lectures (as long as he remembered to show up at the dining table) about the unverified schemes against him conceived by his half-brother. Marilla agreed with Nerdanel’s observation that most of Fëanáro’s arguments were either nonsense of semi-nonsense, yet she couldn’t suffer bringing that topic up to Makalaurë; and that wouldn’t even be necessary, for Marilla knew already what he would say: “My father never makes mistakes.”

* * *

In the end all lies were brought to light. Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro, who was still sticking to his ancient hatred to his stepmother and half-siblings, received the doom of banishment from Tirion from twelve years as punishment to his act of violence against Prince Nolofinwë. King Finwë insisted he would go where his firstborn was resolved to go, and all sons of Fëanáro, Makalaurë included, were to accompany their father throughout his exile.

Nonetheless Marilla had other mind with her husband on the matters of the blade-unsheathing incident and all the rumours before that. And as an Elf-woman she naturally had far more sympathy for Queen Indis and Lady Nerdanel, who she deemed were treated rather unfairly by their spouses. She desired to remain in their company and did whatever little she could for the ladies she esteemed.

As usual, Makalaurë didn’t force her into his decision, though apparently he was somewhat more than dismayed. “Take good care of my mother, then. And take good care of yourself,” Makalaurë uttered his farewell. His heart was heavy with doubt, and at the moment he could not think of anything else to say.

It didn’t feel right.

“I will. And I bid you take good care of yourself, too,” Marilla answered, her flat, detached tone mimicking his.

Feeling unable to bear this any longer, Makalaurë searched his mind twice before coming out a statement that twelve years were after all not that long, and in the mean time he would not have time and distance stand between him and her. He wished this would at least sound reassuring; he knew not whether his tone had failed his intent.

His statement Marilla agreed. She promised to write him often, a promise that he echoed. He threw a riding cloak over his shoulders. She wound her arms around his shoulders from behind, standing on her toes so that she could whisper into his ear, “Fare safe, my dear, and beware what people say. My heart warns me that not all are trustworthy.”

He turned and gave her a grave nod before locking her fast in his embrace.

She returned his embrace with no less force he did her. Yet still it felt less secure than usual, less warm and less certain. Or was it simply because they were of two minds?

The one she found she could not trust was Curufinwë Fëanáro. She dared not tell him she had her doubts on his father. He most certainly would argue; not as fiercely as some of his brothers, but still he would say anything, making sense or not, to defend his father’s good name. After all these years of watchful peace of life woven intricately by resignation from potentially perilous topics, she would not risk a quarrel here and now. She had to make do with the silence.

After all, twelve years were not that long. They would not stand between the eternal bond between Makalaurë and Marilla.

It was five years later that they realized how wishful they had been.

* * *

All seemed to be going on well. The festival, the feast, and even the presence of Fëanáro. Though it would have been better if the King would also attend the events, or if Fëanáro would dress up to enjoy himself. He was not enjoying much, which all could easily tell from his stony look. Yet he agreed to make up with Nolofinwë, which was a good sign.

Then everything turned wrong. The Darkening. Fëanáro’s stubborn refusal of offering his Silmarilli. Sudden appearance of Makalaurë and all his brothers. Death of King Finwë. Disappearance of Fëanáro and his sons.

Marilla observed with foreboding how Fëanáro made his long, agitating speech upon the torch-lit Tirion, and how his sons joined him without hesitation in swearing the impetuous Oath that they should not take. She thought she could no longer recognize her husband’s face. He looked so different: fell and formidable he had become. It caused her to fear.

Saying she was not at all affected by Fëanáro’s speech would be a lie, yet with full knowledge that he was actually repeating his old arguments for over half of his speech, Marilla could maintain herself unswayed by the power of his voice. Her distrust with Fëanáro was not gone, and deep in her mind she insisted that rebellion against the Valar was an act most inappropriate for the Eldar; now she regarded his new call for launching an army against Melkor as nothing but recklessness. Therefore when Fëanáro’s host departed she remained behind.

Yet Marilla didn’t remain long in Tirion. Sudden burst of fear made her rush behind the marching Noldorin hosts, and she wanted to at least to have a final word with Makalaurë before he went outside Valinor, even though she knew not what she could say to him.

She arrived not too soon. The Havens of Alqualondë were scattered with debris and bodies, and covered with blood. In the narrow waters between ship and ship were more bodies. All was red. All was slick.The air was smothering with the smell of salt and blood. Those who were not lying on the ground were hurrying and scurrying here and there, even though, as it seemed, the bloodshed had already come to a pause.

Marilla spotted Makalaurë squatting at the foot of a pole. He was covered with stains of blood from head to toe. Absent-mindedly he fumbled with his sword that stood erect between his knees, its blade coated in thickness of browning blood that the brightness of steel was dulled and dimmed. He didn’t look up as she approached, yet he knew it was she coming, anyway.

“You killed!”

He nodded at the accusation, though whether he knew he was nodding was hard to tell.

“How dare you?!”

No verbal reaction to this challenge, nor any body language. He simply remained squatting.

“Listen, murderer, my uncle is slain,” - which was true: one of Marilla’s aunts married a Telerin fisherman, and she had spotted him among the dead, together with his two sons - “my cousins are slain. I know not who killed them. I know not whom you have killed. I know not who killed whom, and I don’t care. But the whole thing here, this bloodshed, this kinslaying, it is outrageous - it is obnoxious! It... it is evil! How come you shou...su...such crime?” Unable to articulate, she clenched her fists and waved them furiously before her face.

“We needed the ships. We were not granted to borrow them. Father decided to take them anyway.” He answered matter-of-fact-ly, in a driest and coarsest voice she had ever heard. And there he choked before he breathlessly continued, “We should have asked in a friendlier way, I know. Yet father was not in the right mood. None of us was, actually... And we were resisted... And everything lost control... There was only blood and flashes of swords...” A few more coughs. “But, but why are you here, Marilla? You shouldn’t have come...”

At this she interrupted him, arms folded before her chest. “So that you could escape a lecture, right?” Snapped Marilla, “I am not in the place to lecture you, son of Fëanáro. I am yet living, intact and safe from a blade. It should be the slain to question you and judge you.” She stomped with unabashed disgust.

“I’m...”

“Don’t say you are sorry, son of Fëanáro! It changes nothing! And how will I know such crime would never take place again, now that it already happened once?!” Realizing that she was literally screaming, Marilla allowed herself to take a breath before she went on with a flatter tone, “What are you going to do? What’s your plan now?”

Now she was looking down at him with her arms still folded before her, her sky-blue eyes shining pale and piercing in dim starlight. He looked almost vulnerable under her gaze.

For a split moment she wondered if she had been cruel to him. He had obviously lost his mind. In his right mind Makalaurë wouldn’t kill anyone; in his right mind Makalaurë would harm no one! And what would a plan signify when it came to a man who was acting without his proper mind?

Nonetheless Makalaurë resolved to be honest. He had never once lied to her, after all.

“I will sail,” said he, “We will sail, and land on Endorë, and retrieve the Silmarilli. I am following my father.”

“Following your Oath, you say?” she demanded.

“Yea, following my Oath,” he shrugged.

And the die was cast. Now they had an unbreakable Oath stand between them. Both were pondering if they could approach one another despite the obstacle, and both were too ashamed to move, or to ask the opinion of each other. So she didn’t squat, and he didn’t stood up. Between them was a brooding silence, and a self-evident conclusion that both were unwilling to acknowledge, yet neither could find any way to deny.

It was she who first said it. “Fine. You made your choice, son of Fëanáro. Now our paths are parted. You go on! I have a dead uncle and two dead cousins and a few more living relatives to take care of. I remain here. And I don’t wish you bon voyage. I don’t give you my blessings. You deserve none!” With these fierce words, she went away, her frock shimmering impossibly white on the blood-stained docks.

It was long after she turned her heels that he, with help from his brother Maitimo, got up to his feet. Wordlessly he looked into the direction that she disappeared, wanting with a burning desire to run after her and overtake her and close his arms around her, as if that would keep her safe with him. But who was he to stain her with his dirty palms and yet keep she safe? He already failed to keep her uncle and cousins safe, by neglect or aught... Clinging to her would simply be hopeless. Was hopeless already. He could but grimace at the intriguing, hopeless prospect while reliving the memory of all the embraces they had shared.

He boarded, taking his Oath and his bloody blade along with him, and leaving his love behind.

Soon it was proclaimed that a Doom should stand between him and his love. A Doom that would last forever.

* * *

On the Hither Lands he endeavoured the best he could achieve while living under the Doom. He tried his hardest to attack, and to defend, when there was yet hope to retrieve from the Black Enemy. When such hope crashed at last, he joined the assaults against some other Children of Iluvatar who happened to have a Silmaril in their keeping. Bloody deeds repeated themselves, and his Oath would not let him go. When the last chance came he, against his wisdom, stole another one, and received a permanent burn from the sacred Jewel. He cast the Jewel into the sea, yet whether he was free from it he could not tell.

He kept his thoughts and feels in the form of music, or tried to. When he could spare a few hours from running his fortress at the Gap, he would write his new compositions down, and signed “M.”, for now he was known as Maglor. Yet his thought often drifted to the days when his signature was “C.M.”, and when the songs were mostly devoted to his family, not to his soldiers or his fall and remorse. Before he met the worst days of his life he knew already that he would never live his good old days again.

When he was wandering, forlorn and aimless, along the newly formed coastlines of Middle-earth and had literally all his time for his songs, he wrote nothing down and signed nothing, for now he was nobody. His voice had become a legend even among his own people.

Time changed everything around him bit by bit, and inevitably, changed him. When all habitable coasts became occupied by Men, he, before he consciously realized it, had begun settling down among them in some way.

* * *

Marilla knew that following him was folly, yet from time to time she wished she had followed him. Living with separation was gnawing; a full awareness of a probably everlasting separation didn’t help improve her life.

Worst of all, she couldn’t afford confessing her secret longing to anyone. Her husband was a kinslayer and an exile and a publicly denounced villain; declaring her sympathy with him would only endanger her already difficult life. Only Nerdanel and her two sisters-in-law shared her feelings. Yet even between themselves they did not discuss such feelings. Sharing their common bitterness would only make bitterness more bitter. In the now under-populated Valinor the royal ladies of the House of Fëanáro had to be strong, or try to, or at least pretend to. Many eyes were looking upon them with suspicions and even grudge.

Living in Tirion meant being ill-informed. Lady Vairë and Lady Míriel Serindë the former Queen of the Noldor were busily keeping track of the going-abouts all over Arda, yet only the dead could see their tapestries. It was a good many yéni before any living were coming to the Undying Land with news from beyond the Sundering Seas. And it was from them Marilla came into the knowledge of her husband being a capable Lord of his lands (she sighed with relief), his taking up weapons against his own kindred for the second time (she cursed his name), and the third time (she almost lost hope in him). Later she learned that her husband was lost, never seen again among the Eldar, and the reborn Elves confirmed that, for most of them already saw his knitted figure wandering from a weaved shore to another. Míriel Serindë always had a way to locate her wayward grandson. Marilla, unable to follow his track, could only to be left behind to fear for him. His voice, once so sweet and so resonating and always heard across mountain ridges and above deep waters, no longer reached the Land she dwelt on. It would never reach here as long as the Doom worked on him.

Only in her dreams could she hear him sing, either on the familiar marble railing of the rose garden she no longer visited, or atop a boulder on some remote rocky coast, a product of her imagination. Yet even in dreams she was not sure if she should drink in his voice as she once did; waking would be so very painful were the dreams overly enjoyable. She wanted to curse the awareness in her dreams.

The flow of time slowly dulled the once piercing rifts between the wrong and the wronged. When one of her reborn half-Telerin cousins invited Marilla to the wedding of his son, no one really minded her presence. If other guests had any idea of whose wife she was, they pretended they knew not, and addressed her only as Marilla daughter of Sendandil. It was a feast of seafood, strong brews, mirth and Lindarin songs, but Marilla simply could not cheer herself up as she spoke cheers to the bride and the groom, like most simple-minded folk did. In the event she felt only more wrong, and more incomplete. A few days later she caught a glimpse of one of the wedding guests walking side by side with a Sindarin new-comer along the shore, animatedly engaged in a talk about their respective suffering from the kinslaying, spitting at the name of the Fëanorian hosts with unabashed vehemence. Apparently, Marilla still had no just cause to remember her husband in a peaceful way, or to friendly honour his memory.

Yes, there was saying about Maglor showing at least some Elven decency to two Elfling hostages. Later the term “decency” was replaced by “love” as the saying spread. Marilla knew not why she was hurt by that: she had been craving for any remark on her husband which did not demonize him. Yet this particular piece of news struck her in a way she’d never thought of. His fosterlings, his sons of heart... That she could not claim as hers.

Eventually one of these boys made to the Immortal Lands, in the form of an millennia old being. She avoided going near him at first, deliberately. Marilla never failed in spotting Elrond Peredhel among throngs, because the Half-elf’s bearing struck a chord with her in a familiar, nostalgic way, one that she wouldn’t allow herself to indulge further into. Every time at the sight of him her face just darkened and she had to look away, a gesture that often confused her friends.

But in the end she still had to talk with him, for Elrond Peredhel expressed a wish to visit her house, and Marilla had no good reason to turn down. The meeting changed her mind about how to get along with Elrond, but when Maglor was concerned, Marilla really had no idea whether her latest learning brought her more healing, or more hurt. Both, most likely.

Sometimes Marilla would doubt whether knowledge was such a good asset as she used to believe. The more she learned of what was known as Maglor and formed her own mind-image of him, the more she wanted to behold with her own eyes this remote yet familiar being. Yet how could that ever be possible?!

* * *

By the end of the last war Maglor managed to lay hands on his own records. Major Clement Martin, Military Surgeon of the Royal Army, was found “missing” in Germany since April, 1945, whereas three months later Mr. Clarence Morris settled down in a quiet coastal town of around fifty households, taking up job as assistant at a tiny pharmacy.

Yes, he had again been enlisted to a war, and according to laws and regulations of the mortal country he settled in, there was simply no escape of that. Fortunately, going on the medical track he didn’t have to take up weapons against any child of Eru unless for self-defense, even though cutting off damaged limbs or taking out dysfunctional organs provided him with almost as much nausea and regret as killing would. Often he wondered what wretched lives those dogged boys would be forced to lead is they managed to return their homes alive. He didn’t even bring himself to the thought of Maedhros, his mutilated brother, who ever since his return from Thangorodrim had been spending the rest of his life putting up all the strength he could manage to conceal his inner broken-ness, till he finally broke apart. But by the middle of the 20th century according to the mortal calendar, Maglor had long mastered the art of tugging all the memories of his past to the back of his mind, a feat he had thought he’d never manage millennia ago when he walked the mortal shores, singing a song of a forlorn people.

Again he was asking for the favour of the shores. The closeness to the sea always did him some good after burning wars and crises. Even though the splash of seawater ever reminded him of oozing blood ever since Alqualondë, and the salty winds always smelt like smoke and ash to him ever since Losgar. Not even the mastery over his own memories could help him rid of those senses. But since he knew how to live with them, and a scanty remainder of what he actually was served just well enough for him.

Maglor had been drifting from place to place, having taken so many pseudo names that he didn’t even care to remember. Yet more often than not he had been caught up in warfare, no matter what identity he assumed. Human beings were too apt at declaring wars against one another for no too good causes. But since it had been the House of Fëanor who started folly of such nature, Maglor, remembering his kinslaying past, could not really despise these mortal vulnerable to greed and lies. If there were anything he could do to mend that, he would not hesitate to give whatever he could to realize that mending. Yet what happened in the past couldn’t be undone.

As for the present, he was content with his simple life divided entirely by pharmacy work and garden work. He still loved white roses, and had decorated the tiny garden of his modest shelter with a good diversity of them that earned him praises from the neighbourhood. The people here were friendly, and not intrusive. Maglor only wished this quiet life would last throughout his temporary residence here as Clarence Morris, not interrupted by another mortal war.

Nonetheless there were other elements that infiltrated into his life, some of which he found slightly disturbing. The most remarkable was his dreams. He was always having dreams for millennia, most of which an agonizing yet necessary remainder of what he once was and what he had done, yet his recent dreams felt... different. More realistic in settings, and more purposeful in content. Almost like a call. Long accustomed to his belief that the Valar had forsaken him, Maglor quickly dismissed any thought related to the Powers in the West. If only those dreams would be easily dismissed as well; they had been too much of a distraction for his liking!

There were also dreams that concerned not events, but people: his old family and friends, most of all his wife. They were all, out of reasons he couldn’t figure out, beaming at him, Marilla’s smile brightest of all. He would moan in his sleep for such vision, and he would wake miserable.

Maglor tried to concentrate on his work and his moderate attempt of mingling with the local men and women, which he easily managed. After so many years of practice this was not difficult at all. The cloudy Friday turned out another ordinary day for him. In the early evening he returned, on his bicycle, to his lodging. He had cleared the snow in the morning, and no snow showers during the day, which meant he had only to open the door, set aside his briefcase, lit a fire in the fireplace and another on the stove, switch on the radio, and prepare his tea. The leftover from the night before would well serve for this evening meal. No labour in the kitchen, and no work for the garden in winter. As he waited for the water to boil, he sank into his armchair and started browsing an art book.

The doorbell rang. Despite he recollected no appointment at this hour nor any possible dealing with the postal system, Maglor got to his feet and opened the door. And he was literally stunned by the sight of the unexpected guest.

* * *

Though she had been warned before her voyage, Marilla still found this round Arda dismaying. The air smelled foul all the time, the land made of strange materials that she couldn’t tell their names, and the people appeared not at all friendly, some even hostile. Every now and then she could find collapsed buildings, half-erect buildings and marks of smoke on the surface of buildings, and gloomy people trying to fix the cracks and leaks with what appeared to her eyes as sticky and muddy liquid, only to leave ugly marks on the wall. And also lots of gloomy people with amputated limbs, and many more gloomy women and children than men. What had happened to this place?

Marilla had been informed that her husband was living exactly on a none-too-large mortal isle. It made things easier for her, though not as easy as to her liking. The people here were many, and what they spoke she understood not, and she often found herself the focus of all those odd, subtly different gazes cast by the people around her. Language was a hindrance, obviously. Without understanding the Mannish tongues of this Age, she couldn’t just begin her work. The customs and ways of living held by the people here posed another difficulty. She had a hard time to make sense of all the harsh voices and angry faces targeted at her when she walked the roads, and Marilla understood well enough that they had reason to. The problem was how she had offended them this badly and how she could mend that.

Fortunately the Noldor pick up a new tongue quickly, and soon enough she began to make sense of some patterns of the oral speech, and a few rules that could be applied to what must be a set of letters. The association between the oral and the written came much later, though. In the mean time she managed to pawn her pearl necklace and pearl earrings, so that after a fortnight living solely on lembas she could finally get herself some other food, which was quite a relief to poor Marilla. It was only later she came to learn that the first pawnbroker that she met, taking advantage of her choppy English and ignorance of the currency of the Kingdom, offered her an amount which could barely cover her expenses for three weeks. With more dealings with other pawnbrokers she gradually gathered enough budget for her travel and an improved knowledge of this Mortal society, including a sense of direction to know where the roads and railways were.

It also took her some time to find out inns and hostels were far better overnight shelters than in a tree or beneath an arch of a bridge. Travelling Elves in Valinor didn’t take sleep in hotels; they spent the night under the roof of their friends, or friends of their friends. Yet here, she had neither; the only one she knew she could not find yet.

Another important knowledge was dressing. She had cut her dress short to just reaching her calves, and bought a sweater and a coat or whatever it was called to blend in with other mortal women. She learned to comb her hair into a tight bun, only leaving a few strands loose to cover the tips of her ears; the concealment was later secured by a broad-brimmed hat. All jewels she stowed in her purse, save a thin ring of gold circling her index finger of the right hand. She never stopped feeling unfriendly eyes shot at her when she was wearing ornaments, and noticing all the plain, some even shabby, clothes on the streets, she thought she understood why. By the time she could effectively buy herself a rail ticket and understood that she should board on time, her English was already as good as what a second-generation immigrant could command.

Whether it was utterly by accident, or a star indeed was shining upon her path as her people would believe, she could not tell. But as soon as she landed on the platform of a random station she had picked, she felt she was coming to the right place. She could sense his presence, faintly but undeniably. Or was that she had been dreaming of him for long enough to confuse wish of her heart with uncertain reality?

But after a quick tour around this small town, she did find a place which was more than curious or interesting. It was a little house, or perhaps a cottage. It was painted all white, the wooden fences around the garden included. In front of the door was a porch, which was quite unusual for such a small building. And at the foot of the platform of the porch unmistakably flowerbed of roses, even though it was not the season for any buds or blooms. The saplings of cedars and pines were green and lush, and so were the hollies. With a closer look at the translucent patterns of the windowpanes and how the clambering ivies on the facade were actually neatly trimmed, she was almost certain she was at the right door.

Yet the house showed no sign of occupancy: not any light travelling outwards from gaps between curtains as she had noticed when observing other houses. With a sigh she wrapped her coat (which was totally unnecessary in any practical sense) closer to herself. Should she wait, right in front of what might be his place?

Therefore she decided to step out of the sight, which she did, and did so successfully that, after a quarter of an hour, the passing-by cycler didn’t even notice a strange lady pacing back and forth at the corner of the street. The man was of tall stature, slim and perhaps somewhat skinny. And very pale with short black hair. He was riding so fast that his scarf and the hem of his knee-length coat was floating behind him. Without dismounting he managed to open his gate, stormed inside the garden and finally parked his vehicle against the side of a flight of stairs. There he ascended the stairs, unlocked the front door, entered and disappeared. Soon the light was on, and she could hear with her Elven ears that some music was playing, though not on an instrument, but from some mortal device. Well, now she had eventually located him. Should she not go up and meet him?

Without hesitation Marilla walked into this tiny garden (for the gate was left unlocked) as though into remembrance of a much larger and equally elegant one. Had there been a marble railing and any roses in blossom at her foot, the resemblance could be striking. Was that intended? Or was such design simply an old habit of his? Her heart was yearning for an answer, and dreading it at the very same moment.

Finally she walked up to the door, and pressed the bell. Yea, no bell ropes; mortal bells were buttons to press. She had not yet fully understood the electricity thing.

Almost as soon as the sound died, the door was pulled open, revealing the tall man who just now entered the building. His scarf and coat and jacket were all removed, leaving him only in waistcoat, shirt and trousers; his hat also gone, his pointed ears were quite in the danger of being exposed to the other’s sight as a gust of wind lifted the short tresses behind his temples. His face displayed no physical trace of his age, as was a trait of his species, yet one could easily tell at the first glance that he was far much older than he appeared. His eyes were steel grey, yet with a subtle colouring that rendered them brighter than stars.

Now those eyes were staring at her, startled, without any blinking.

Words failed her. She could think of nothing to say or to do. She simply stood there as though her feet were glued to the doormat. She felt she was acting like a fool.

He was doing no better. Belatedly it struck him that he should usher her inside, and he helped her remove her clumsy coat, whereas she rid herself of her hat and set her hair loose. No word exchanged. He was only doing what he felt was polite, and she trying to relax a little bit by changing into a hairstyle she always loosed. It didn’t help much, unfortunately. He only gestured her a seat before rushing into his kitchen and starting preparing a dinner for two.

And she was left with many news headlines emitted from the radio, which had little to do with him and naught at all with her.

Half an hour later dinner with ready. And he apologized for the lack of decent food, which was quite true, for all that could produce were smashed potatoes, boiled peas, and a thin broth with vegetable leaves. Yet it felt ironic: he had an endless list of items of apologies, for many of which he was never expecting forgiveness, yet the first apology that came from his throat should fall on a mediocre everyday meal...

She said she understood that the mortal country was suffering from the aftermath of a severe war, severe lack in supplies being one of its symptoms, and that she was not expecting anything better.

He nodded. They started and finished their meal in awkward silence. Only when the tea was served, did he remember to ask after her and her family, and his family, which he added as an afterthought, not certain whether he had the right to mention the names of the ones left behind. He was told that they were doing quite ordinarily well, and of his six late brothers three were now reincarnated.

Dizzily he thanked her for the information.

Then he quietly took a sip of his tea, and another sip, and yet another sip, before he inquired about her journey. The emphasis was on why and how. He understood that without the answers of both he could not go on with any conversation that made sense, yet bring his questions out of his mouth demanded more courage than he had estimated.

She took a deep breath before she started. “To bring you back, certainly... ”

“That is not possible,” he snapped, interrupting her sentence, “There is the Ban...”

“Please let me finish, Makalaurë.” she gestured him to be quiet. “The Valar decide it’s time you came back and rejoined us. The Ban is lifted. Your Oath is made void, by the Grace of All-father. Do not think that we are ignorant of or indifferent to your... circumstances.”

“Then I’ll believe you, now that you explained. So the Valar are sending you as emissary to persuade my return, uh?”

“I volunteered to come. And do not feel enforced to comply if you are not yet ready.”

“No, I am not, honestly.” He said, and lowered his eyes to fix loosely on his lap. “The thought of return has never crossed my mind. I never saw it possible, after my deeds, my guilt, my fall from grace. I thought I would have no place among those I had wronged. I am still thinking so. Wait...” He looked up again at her, eyes narrowing, “Now you are wanting me back to Aman, even though all think I deserve not?”

“I am, Makalaurë. And I am not the only one who wants this.” She tried to smile encouragingly as she said, “Your mother the Lady Nerdanel is more than eager to see your face again, and the same with your brothers Carnistir and the Ambarussas. The Lords Nolofinwë and Findëkáno were also glad at the prospect of your return. The King Arafinwë himself wishes to deliver his welcome in person, yet given his duties in Tirion he was persuaded not to come here look for you. Such is also the case of your cousin the Lord Findaráto.The Lord Elrond, who was under you care for quite a while, is among the most eager for the quest, and considered the most fitting. Actually I know not why I am chosen in the end.” With a relaxed smile she began to drink her tea(, which tasted surprisingly good.)

He nodded thoughtfully at the names, saying nothing. Only when she was finished did he venture, “Mother and Carnistir and the Ambarussas, yes. And Elrond. But why also the Houses of Nolofinwë and of Arafinwë? After betraying on them at Losgar and causing them loss and sufferance beyond count, how come they would care tupence for a traitor?”

“You are family. You won’t deny this, will you?” She set her cup down and took up his hands. She hadn’t been able to hold his hands in hers for millennia.

“No, I won’t,” He said in a solid voice, though his facial expression was less steady, though. It indicated a “but” that was remained unsaid, and a lot of self-doubt and sense of guilt behind that “but”. She easily discerned this as she closed her fingers against the back of his hands, before she laid them open and tentatively studied the scars in his palms with her fingertips. To him it felt like something was thawing slowly around him. A strange and blissful warmth. One he probably did not deserve.

“Now, Makalaurë, look at me and listen. My mission as appointed by the Valar is completed by my finding you and informing you of their offer. By letting you know that your homeland is again open to you. Whether you join me on the return journey or rather postpone your sailing remains your choice. Yet as Marilla I want to say a few more words to you: please set aside for but a little while the thoughts of your Oath, your Doom, your Ban and your pride, and answer my questions as your heart tells you to. I know that you are missing a lot of people: family and friend. Do you wish to see them once more and join them and not be separated from them?”

She didn’t speak for herself, but her intent look into his eyes told everything.

“Yes, terribly,” came his answer, accompanied by a bitter smile and wetness in his eyes.

“Then, Makalaurë, please don’t let your hesitation stand between you and those whom you love.” She took up his right hand and planted a kiss on his wedding ring.

He felt blood returning to his veins. He felt an almost irrepressible urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. It was only held in check when he told himself this was too sweet to be true, like the dreams he had lately dreamed.

He needed the proof that she was not just another dream.

“Greensleeves” was being played on the radio now. It was played every day at this hour actually, for it served as prelude to the next programme. Yet more often that not the slow, sad melody on the lute would bring Maglor to the brink of tears, and this evening the song asserted its effect on his wife.

“It’s beautiful,” she turned to the source of the music, softly leaning towards her husband, “you wrote it?”

“Nay, a song of romance and unrequited love by a mortal bard, played on an instrument called lute. Ever popular for the past three hundred years, with a lot of adaptions on various instruments.” He stopped pouring her tea to let her, and let himself, listen. “I like it,” he admitted as a stanza gently came to its close, and the next not yet arising.

“So do I,” she smiled, looking longingly into Maglor’s eyes. “Play it for me. Instruct me how.”

It was only after he got to feet did she realize that this song might not have a harp adaption, or that Canafinwë Makalaurë might have long given up his music. By the end of what was counted the First Age he was reported to be stilling singing and harping, yet that was an Age long long gone. So much had changed, even his bearing and his air. How could she be certain? She might very possibly asked too much of him.

Yet what happened next quickly dismissed her newly-roused worry, for from the cupboard beneath the staircase a took out an Elven harp. As he returned to her he bade her sit in his armchair by the fire, and earning her assent via eye contact he fixed himself into the same chair, and laid his time-worn harp on her lap. Slowly, even more slowly than what it had sounded on the radio, she started producing one soft note after another as he hummed into her ear and his fingers pointed at the places where she should lay hers. Occasionally she could feel some roughness brushing the back of hands, and realized that it was his scars. Curiously she found she enjoyed the touch of it; it left an itch on her slender skin, making her desire more. She indulged herself to drink in the scent of the burning wood, of the fragrance of the herb tea and of her companion just as he did, and before realizing it his lips were once again buried in the richness of her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> For narration’s sake many names in this story are given in their Quanya form. Here is a list:  
> Canafinwë Makalaurë -- Father- and mother-names of Maglor  
> Curufinwë Fëanáro -- Father- and mother-names of Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë -- Father-name of Fingolfin  
> Endorë -- Middle-earth  
> Maitimo -- Mother-name of Maedhros  
> Carnistir -- Mother-name of Caranthir  
> Ambarussa -- The shared mother-name of Amrod and Amras  
> Findëkáno -- Father-name of Fingon  
> Arafinwë -- Father-name of Finarfin  
> Findaráto -- Father-name of Finrod in Telerin form
> 
> Maglor is stated married in HoME 12 (though nothing else do we know about his marriage and his wife); hence my first Silmarillion OC Marilla. Her name means “pearl” (from the Quenya name generator [http://elffetish.com/QuenFrame.php]). Her father’s name, Sendandil, means “peaceful friend” (senda + ndil). 
> 
> The Eldar exchange silver rings upon betrothal and gold rings upon wedding. They wear their wedding rings on the index finger of the right hand, as is suggested in LaCE in HoME 10.
> 
> The damage done to Britain during WWII, air-raids, and post-WWII shortage of supplies in WWII are generally based on a few movies featuring this period of Britain, and the book “84 Charling Cross Road”. Well, I didn’t do my own research. I’m sorry for this. But I trust movie-makers have done convincing research on the periodic setting of their stories, so I just borrowed what I have seen.
> 
> About the lack of hotels or other commercial overnight shelters in Valinor: I made that up. I find Elves are hospitable enough to accommodate even strangers in their lodgings (or other places they plan to stay for the night) as is suggested in The Hobbit and LotR. In my view, the friendliness between the Elves of Valinor would only surpass what’s suggested in TH and LotR.
> 
> Thank you for your reading. Please tell me how you think about this. Reviews are love!


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